


Edelweiss

by Griffinous56



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Slice of Life, Wings, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29959899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griffinous56/pseuds/Griffinous56
Summary: All wings are meant to fly.Some are honed to be the finest diamond while some others are meant to belong to a loving home.Or in which this’s just a short series of how Byleth and some other learn to fly.
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth & Everyone
Kudos: 1





	Edelweiss

_ The first time when Byleth tried to fly was when they were seven - leaped from the highest branch of an oak they could reach as they aimed for a hay stash no more than two meters away - they fell and stumbled the moment they jumped as if their wings were nothing more than mere oversize decoration. Their wings, the grotesque thing with pale striped webbing and thick ashen greyscales for feathers, were the one thing that kept them from harm. Too heavy to fly but thick and sturdy enough for many impacts. A fellow mercenary rushed to them, salve in hands ready for any injuries - her brownish short wings carried her with ease.  _

_ Nothing like Byleth. Bony wings too heavy with ashen scales that made the thing dragged on the ground behind them with each footstep. Too big to belong to a child. Enormous for their size which made them look ridiculous if they were not already, stood out among a sea of average browns, blacks and greys. _

_ Unlike the sister who was so kind to help them. Unlike father’s broken pair. _

_ Abnormal. Deviant. Just like themselves. _

_ The mercenary whose name Byleth for the life of them couldn’t remember softly applied healing salve to their bruises and promised that they would continue their lesson another day. Byleth shook their head and insisted on continuing, out of sheer stubbornness or determination they did not know, only that they just wanted to learn how to fly. _

_ “Your wings are still too young and weak for flight,” She said, a soft sigh escaped her cracked lips. “When yours has developed enough, I definitely will teach you how to fly.” Her smile was small but sincere and for a fleeting moment, Byleth hoped their face at least expressed some gratitude to the women who never addressed them as any more than “Byleth” or “Brat”.  _

_ (She didn’t get the chance to. A mistake in their footing on a mission led to that same mercenary taking an arrow that was meant for Byleth. Jeralt didn’t express much at their loss but Byleth could see how the dark circles around his eyes got deeper a bit more, a turf consisting of colorful feathers on his armrest behind his trusty buckler had a new addition - a familiar lone brownish feather that looked dull compared to vibrant others. Byleth simply knew the intention because they too had a collection of their own, hidden beneath their coat pocket.) _

_ The night after their first flight attempt, Byleth sat alone in their cot in the dead of the night, wishing that they didn’t have wings at all. _

  
  


Byleth slightly furrowed their eyebrows, silently watching over the three kids fighting against bandits under their temporal guidance, noting how they all moved differently. The girl in red holds fast, elegant long fingers gripping her axe handle in a death grip, purple eyes looked as though could see right through your soul. Her movements were swift and calculated like they’ve been rehearsed hundreds of times but stiff in a pathom anxiety, like how her thin white wings always folded closely to her back. She moved through the field as if she had no wings at all, never had the taste of the sky.

The wingless tanned skin boy fought with precaution and stiff movements, obviously not used to a fight where lives are at stake; not just his alone but those he fights alongside with. But he pressed on anyway, marveling between thick brushes and bandit’s rank with a bow in hands, lips always curled up in a nervous smirk hidden beneath smudge demeanor he always seemed to wear. Flipping and dancing across Foldlan's field as if possessing the wings of his own.

And then there was him. 

The blond let out a battle cry as he pierced a bandit chest, who was already wobbling from yellow’s arrow, and Byleth quickly realized how there was no hesitation in his strikes unlike two others when he was about to take a life. Even when he harshly pulled out his lance and evaded a second bandit coming from behind, his vast black and white wings knocked the axe off of the rouge hands; unhinged like a wild animal with no trace of sympathy for its fallen prey. He was quick on his feet, everything in his stances and movement screamed experiences. When to lunge and where to pierce. And—

_ Ah,  _ and Byleth thought,  _ These children know death. _

At the end of the day, the surprise bandit attacks a blur on their mind as Byleth was finally able to formally meet future Kings and Empress, heading south instead of the north with a feeling of deja vu and giggle of a ghostly girl inside their head.

  
  


_ A giggle fit coming from the nearby brush was the only warning Glenn got before getting jumped on by three small shadows and Glenn, weary from his previous march to Garreg Mach, fell backward in an attempt to catch those little fiends. A friend of his giggles with glee and elbowed the person next to her to leave, leaving Glenn to his fate of dealing with noble brats which surely wouldn’t leave him alone for the next three hours. Glenn grumbled a soft “traitor” under his breath when his squad flashed a smirk at him, glancing down at mashed of different color in his arms while looking around for a flash of yellow that was Ingrid. _

_ Those three kids were still giggling, seemingly didn’t care as Faerghus snow started to cover them all from head to toes. Luckily, the young prince recovered first, swiftly stood up, and dragged his two friends with him, ears turning under Glenn’s unimpressed stare as he muttered a sheepish sorry. _

_ “Welcome home, Glenn—.” _

_ “Big bro, look, look!” Sylvain said enthusiastically, hopping on his spot. His small wings flapped lightly, already a shade of fiercely red. “Felix wings are sprouting!” _

_ “It’s called coming, Sylvain. Only you would call it sprouting.” _

_ “So!?” _

_ The young noble words startled Glenn out of his doze, immediately on alert as he squinted and crooked his head to finally look. A small mass of black on Felix's back finally brought to attention, something he somehow missed a few minutes before. _

_ Felix stretched out his wings full-span, short things with fluffy dark blue feathers and soft creamy downy on the underside. “Swallow wings, like yours,” Felix said, back straight and chest puff and looked so proud of his five months old wings, no doubt someday would grow into one of the fastest and most nimble pairs of wings Faerghus would ever know. Sooner or later, sharp and narrow feathers would grow and the kid himself would be a spitting image of Glenn’s, finally reaching the adulthood of a Fradarius. _

_ Glenn hoped that day wouldn’t come too fast. _

In a bit happier world, Glenn would laugh, goofy and sincere (“That goofy toothy smile is definitely in Fradarius’ bloodline, am I right?” Sylvain remarked and immediately earned a playful punch from his small friend) as he ruffled these child's heads, promised that once their wings had fully grown he would teach them how to fly himself. Guiding them away from the heavy burden of knighthood and code of honor that he and many others from this freezing land had worn. In that slightly happier world, Glenn would be there, taking his father’s spot at Lambert’s side as he watched how those kids grew up and flew for the first time; black, red, yellow, and blue weaving the dark cloud above like sunlight’s dawn at the skyline. And in what could be an ideal world, Felix would become a knight alongside Sylvain and Ingrid, they all would serve the one king Dimitri into the future, wearing their house insignia on their chest with pride.

But they were living in this world, where Glenn was strict and bitter and thought things would be better if these kids were under Gilbert’s and Rodrigue's guidances. In this world, those wings would be forever stained with fire and blood from both Faerghus and Duscur. And in this same world, no one would be there so see how fast they have to grow, haunted by the knight honors their people so proud of and ash that never could be washed away.

_ (But nobody knew that this imperfect world was the only place where those children could be their living for their ideas. Or how that slightly happier world is where their small flock of four remained forever unchanging, isolated to the outside world, simply because a certain girl in red never made it out of a dark dungeon below.) _

  
  


Edelgard patiently paints bright red patterns onto her wings, Hulbert helps to rub ash into the rest. There’s not much room for them to work on but that will do enough for no one to make a connection between the cunning Flame Emperor to the striving leader of the Black Eagle house. Try not to think of her brothers’ reds and sisters’ browns. Not of how she no longer can fly with her own wings, a useless decoration not much for anything but a show of inheritance for her father’s pale ones. Doesn’t think of the lone blue feather attached to a gifted dagger she can’t trust herself to know anymore. Not thinking how those fire patterns on her wings and cloak spell out a future made of ashes and bloodshed. Not of the new professor, ashen wings draped over two bodies in heavy rain, tear-glistening eyes scream heartbreak and pain with occasional hiccups they couldn’t suppress. Definitely not thinking of home and wondering what it is telling about her more when Edelgard doesn’t think of it as a dark dungeon but a classroom with deep red banners and many classmates she doesn’t really get to grow close with. Try not to miss lessons and classes under the golden sun inside this room that is cold and dull.

Edelgard stretches her wings made of flame and ashes (wasn’t it used to be brown once? Like her hair before…), thinking of the underground tomb and the faces she will meet.

  
  


_ “Careful now, kid. Or you’ll break my wings.” sighed Jeralt before swiftly turned around to catch a six-year-old kid readying to leap from a stack of barrels. Nestled in his arms, Byleth faltered in surprise, their wings momentarily stretched in its binding. (“It’s more convenient this way,” Byleth had said under the flabbergast gaze of their father and other mercs, carelessly bumping their wings against a cart - bound in the thickest rope their small hands could get on. “I can’t lift it well and it would just get in the way and I would trip.”) _

_ “How?” _

_ “My wings. More impact and it would break. They’re too damaged now to handle any kind of impact.” Jeralt stated while shifting Byleth in his hold into a bridal carry, calmly walking to his tent. Weak as it was, his wings still folded a protective shield around them both; tonight was chilly after all.  _

_ From their position, Byleth reached out to brush each strain feathers they could reach, each one as big as their palm and just as strong when they gave a testing tug. Unlike Byleth’s - too large wings with a weird ashen tone - Jeralt’s wings are a brilliant shade of red and auburn, weaving together like embers dancing inside a fireplace. They had heard how many envied their father’s wings. (“It’s a good thing”, a mercenary in their merry band once said, “It means they wish to have your father’s wings too, kid. Friggin’ hell, I wish my wings were at least half his size and comparable to its colors too.” “Language, kids are here.” “They know the risk of hanging out with us, to hell with language.”).  _

_ “Your wings won’t break.” Under a surprise raised eyebrow, Byleth added. “It always has protected us before and you always soar higher than everyone here. I doubt it can even break.” Sure, people have wing disease like Byleth might have and those outside of Fodlan didn’t have wings at all, but Jeralt the Blade Breaker? Without his wings? Jeralt would be grounded forever just because of some pathetic impact? Unacceptable. _

_ And no, they wouldn’t admit the thought father grounded and couldn’t fly scared them. Not at all. _

_ “...And people say you’re an unexpressive and scary brat.” _

_ In response, Byleth snuggled into the warm embrace they knew since birth. Lulled to sleep with jostling steeps, distracting whistles and feathers occasionally brushing against their cheek. _

  
  


_ “Can you tell me about mother’s wings?”  _

_ Byleth asked one night when a contract skirmish got too gruesome and their blood-coated deviant wings became too heavy to lift. When a day gets too exhausting for even the famous Ashen Demon to shoulder silently. An iron sword was resting on Byleth’s laps, cleaned and sharpened and heavy like the hollow emptiness they couldn’t feel in their chest. _

_ Jeralt, from his side of the tent they were resting in, spared Byleth a glance before chugging down another mug of cheap booze. The topic of Byleth’s unknown mother was rarely picked up, even between themselves, but Jeralt never denied them any spare details he could give like how he met her in a garden inside somewhere they did not know or how much their mother loved them so even before their birth. And so Jeralt spoke, slowly like trying to reminisce memories from someplace far away. One word followed another before it was spilling sentence to sentence, crystal clear yet rushed like a waterfall, and that day, Byleth learned how their mother wings were just like their own: foreign, ashen and heavy but small and fragile and despite all that she still cherished it and so did he. _

_ Their own wings continued to be a dead weight upon their back. _

The first time it happened, it was after their second class assignment.

Repressing a trained army wasn’t an ideal job even for physically gifted students at Garreg Mach’s military academy, even when said students were led by a former mercenary and those from the church. The thick fog has worn their body down as much as their spirit, especially when it was Ashe who was tasked with the job of dealing a finishing blow to Lonato’s chest. There were cheering, for a disaster averted, for rooting out a rebellion among the system; there were praises too, for the unmatched skill of steering and commanding a troupe despite the circumstances they were facing. Still, for Byleth’s students, taking the lives of vile bandits was much more different than their once fellow man who they trusted. (Used to, once, but did the usage of words even matter? Because  _ I shouldn’t question the church’s decision when it comes to treachery and violations against the church of Seiros right’s—) _

“Are you alright?”

“I, h— huh?”

Ashe snapped his head up to meet a pair of pale violet, steady and unbiased as it looked straight into his soul. Their mysterious teacher has always been like that, a pillar of support they always can rely on whether it’s on the battlefield or classroom matter. The same couldn’t be said for personal matters though.

“No- nothing professor! I was just lost in thought that’s all.” Ashe chirped back, raising his own cup of tea to his lips. It was already empty, cupped between his sweaty palms like a shield from Byleth’s steady eyes. Ashe couldn’t help but wonder what did those gaze found in his eyes; uneasiness perhaps, when his breathing would hitch whenever his father— Lonato’s dull eyes would stare back at him from beyond, drowns him in silence grief; or maybe fear in his twitching thumbs because if the church was so fast and willing to put down one of his people, turning them into one of the small casualties for the sake of their goddess,  _ what would that make him, a single petty thief, then? _

The bed creaked and Byleth was sitting next to him now, a feeling of something weighted was drafted over his back. His teacher simply leaned over to pour him more tea, the smell of mint woke him from another trance. “If you want to vent, you know you can rely on me.”

The weight on his shoulder was Byleth’s wings. Heavy and stiff and  _ warm, like how Lonato used to cover him and his siblings years ago, eating tasty baked treats while reading many old books in the Gaspard’s library on cold Faerghus’ nights. Everything was never simple then and even now, but it was peaceful and filled with the laughter of his late brother—. _

His head was resting on Byleth’s lap, half of his face was pressed into their belly. He blinked, confused. Yet Ashe didn’t move, didn’t have energy too.

A hand was cradling in his head, combing his unwashed hair. “Take a rest and sleep. You’ve been working hard after all.” Curt and aloof as always and Ashe wanted to reply  _ no thank you professor, I’m fine really but— _

But facing the heat and softness in Byleth’s lap, the slight twitch in his thumb died, making him forget the gaze of dead bodies and the world around him for a moment. Against his better judgment, Ashe relaxed, his own wings - painted in a color similar to his late father’s - unfurled from his back as Byleth continued to comb his hair, humming an unfamiliar song. Their large wings were drafting over them both, providing a hefty blanket. The world was small and simple again.

Shortly after, Ashe fell asleep.

  
  


Byleth sobs, their father's head cradled in their hands, always so small compared to his. His face is serene despite their paleness and the blood splattered on his cheek.

The rain is getting heavier.

Father’s wings are cut up and resting at a weird angle, feathers cluster in deep dark patches that shouldn’t be on him for Jeralt the Blade Breaker is the unmoving pillar that they always can rely on. He should be walking back home with them right now, brown wings raised over their head to protect them from the rain.

The rain is getting heavier.

But he isn’t. He’s lying still in a way he shouldn’t. Jeralt couldn’t fly anymore, hasn’t for a long time, but he always holds his wings high and proud, never slumped over. 

_ The rain is getting heavier. _

He’ll never walk again, Byleth chokes back a sob but fails. Father is grounded but always proud. But papa is dead. Papa is now grounded and can’t cover them within his wings anymore, all because they were too slow. 

Jeralt won’t wake up. Byleth still can’t get used to the concept of the death of close ones.

_ The rain is getting heavier. _

  
  


Miklan’s death was inevitable. Sylvain knew that. The lance of Ruins was also meant for him, Sylvain knew that also when its handle rested easy in his hands. So the redhead took it all in strides so no, he wasn’t stewing in sadness at all. Everyone got it all wrong, he thought, his friends (could he even call them his friends anymore?) we're giving him spaces he didn’t need. If only they knew his burning hatred.

But what was the point if they knew? Nothing, that was.

Felix wasn’t inviting him for sparing. That was good, more time to chase after a pretty girl on the Red Eagle’s house.

Somehow he ended up laying on Byleth’s lap.

“I wouldn’t say I don’t appreciate this, professor,” Sylvain grinned, taking in Byleth’s silence when he nuzzled his nose into their belly. It was comfy, really. “But shouldn’t you do this with Annette or someone else? You know my reputation.”

A wink. “Or is there something you wanna tell me?”

Byleth sighs, eyes still wouldn’t stray from a pill of homework. Maybe he should charm them into giving him good grades. His speared scarlet wings occupy most of the bed, not quite as large as Byleth’s but close enough. Somehow his charming technique never works with his teacher, a shame. “Hey, you invited me for tea time this time!”

“Then rest here Sylvain.”

This was nice, Sylvain decided. So he did just that. The weather was cold right now after all and this small place was soft and warm.

And maybe he could coat Ingrid or Felix into cuddling with him like this too.

  
  


“She’s doing quite well, isn’t she?”

Dedue looks up from his patchwork to watch as Mercedes continues to play with an eaglet on her lap, the thing is happily chirping and nipping at her finger. It’s getting a lot bigger compared to when he picked it up two months ago. She isn’t ready to fledge, not yet, not when she isn’t fully molted or when Dedue isn’t able to fly for not having wings himself. 

“Much better now that you’re helping us. I can’t thank you enough, Mercedes.”

In return were a loud chirp and a gentle smile. “It’s nothing, really. It was fun taking care of this little one with you, Dedue,” She chuckles when the eaglet hops out of her lap to nips at her creamy color feather tips as well as a wings decoration that Dedue had made for her in one of their “Duscur’s history lessons” in curiosity. It matches the one he wore around his right wrist. “I wouldn’t say I’m a great flyer myself, but if you want, I and dear Annette would be happy to teach it how to fly for you.”

Eagle is meant to fly. It isn’t fair to keep them in the safety of his room after all. Dedue frowns at the thought. Their hatching isn’t an exception.

Mercedes gasps at his frown, a delicate hand covers her mouth. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean anything like that.”

Why would she—  _ oh. _

_ Oh. _

“It’s alright, I know you didn’t mean it like that,” offers her a smile, Dedue reaches out to take her hand into his own. It’s so soft and delicate in his, just as he thought. “I would greatly appreciate it if you two can spare the time. I and this small fella here would love to have good company.”

Her smile in return is as soft and gentle as always. “Me too, Dedue. Me too.”

Perhaps he should bake some more sweets, Duscur recipes, of course, the young man thinks as he pets the chirping eaglet. Perhaps soon, so he can see that smile again.

  
  


“I don’t see why we should preen my wings.”

“Hm?” Dorothea looked over Byleth's shoulder, head slightly tilted in question. Hilda also stopped arranging various brushes and wings’ feather clips to look at her too. Lysithea fidgeted on the spot, suddenly uncomfortable at the attention. Perhaps another cookie could calm her down. She did just that.

“How so? Your wings are sooooo pretty! It would be a shame if you don’t take care of it properly. You don’t want them to get all clustered or damaged.” Hilda pipped from her table - somehow they all had decided to have a preening session between themselves inside Hilda’s room, not that Lysithea complains. Byleth brought over many baked sweets from Annette and Dorothea had many cute feather clips. Not that she didn’t appreciate a good company that wouldn't treat her like a pouting small child.

But  _ still. _

Lysithea spread her wings - an immaculate white, but too short and underdeveloped for someone around sixteen, still recovering from malnutrition and abuse. “It’s not like I plan on flying for anytime soon. Besides keeping it from getting infected, I don’t see why I should take extra steps at looking after them like you guys do.”

Both Dorothea and Hilda let out a scandalized gasp that Lysithea couldn’t help but rolled her eyes. “Don’t say that!” the young songstress said, waving a brush at her. “Using for flight or not, preening one wing is an important personal task and should be dutifully maintained.”

“Imagine you don’t take a bath every now and then. Yuck,” Hilda pulled a face. “I know some people like that before going to this monastery and believe me, you don’t want to end up like them.”

“Aaaand your wings are still growing. It needs all the attention it can get!”

Lysithea suppressed a sigh. Adult wings were fully molted around seventeen or eighteen. To her, it was like decades away. Not bothering with the subject anymore, she made her way over to Hilda’s table, absentmindedly sorting through the mess she’s made. She spotted among the feather clips some foreign decorations that looked suspiciously like the kind Mercedes was wearing now. Dedue apparently had made a very successful career of spreading Duscur accessories within their class. Hilda hummed as if reading her mind and reach to a mutual agreement, busy herself with picking a clip that suited Lysithea best.

“You know I could die before my wings—.”

“I think not,” a voice interrupted, low and sharp. “I can protect you and all of us will help you fly.”

Byleth’s wings are all scales - hard, cold and sharp - but impressive nonetheless. Lysithea and Hilda met their gaze with a slight warmth before joining both Byleth and Dorothea on the bed, huddling underneath their wings and trying all the accessories they could get their hands on. It felt safe like nothing would ever happen to her as long as she stays like this.

  
  


A barking noise erupts from Dimitri’s throat sounds more like a wail charred black by coal and blood rather than a mocking laugh. His massive wings raise high, flaring wide in aggression that makes Felix take a step back and actually _look,_ his sparrow wings uncurl against the visible threat _._

But none of them are the target of his wrath.

_ “Is this some kind of twisted joke!?” _

Each word jarred his hearts open and left them a mess of ugly scars.

_ Her _ wings, an ugly shade of black and red, twitch when Dimitri takes a fighting position, lance, a menacing silhouette within the deadly silence of the tomb. Still, she stares him down, silent and judgemental as always because  _ yes, yes of course he should have noticed the moment he spotted the gifted dagger with his baby feather attached to it. Of how different she is compared to his memory, all the whispered and fleeting glances.  _ From a side, the Blue Lions member exchange nervous glances, too startled by their leader’s outburst.

“Dimitri, hold on this’s-”  _ It’s him it’s her, it’s the executioner it’s the witch, it’s the flame it’s the pain the death of his father and many friends who were known and loved. Take her life carve out her heart, rips out her wings, make her pay make her pay Dimitri avenge us for the bloodbath cause her pain make her scream- _

“I’ll take your head off your shoulder-” She still won’t say anything. Is there _ even anything to say since when did you lose your trust in me  _ why won’t she say anything sister sister  _ sister please  _ **_kill her._ ** “-and hang it on the gate of Enbarr!”

His lance misses her by a long shot.

But let the scar it left on her wings be the death sentence he has sent to her.

  
  


Byleth falls.

And falls.

And falls.

The wings remain as heavy as ever, as useless as ever.

  
  


_ “It's the Ethereal Moon of the year 1185. It's been nearly five years since the monastery fell.” _

Those words sound horrid in their ear, dulled and aches like a fleshly torn open wound that couldn’t heal. And those are more than enough to send them into a frenzy, sluggish feet unused in those past five years carrying their limping owner upstream. And up and up and up until Byleth feels like they’re being weighed down more than ever with sand heavy in their boots and river water rolling off their back, heavy and wet. They have to be faster, their student needs them.

A breath choked off inside their burning throat.

_ Their student needs them. _

So Byleth doesn’t stop limping. Doesn’t slow down even when all the grayscale on their wings slowly but surely shed one by one until a speck of silver feather can be seen underneath. Doesn’t stop more than a minute to catch their breath when the monastery crumbling gate was just within hand reach, cracked ground dry with blood and scattered with human bone underneath their feet. Unfaltered even when the staircase leading to the Goddess Tower is stained with slain Imperial’s soldier, metal boots sounds loud in their ears and echoes off the stone-cold walls with wild vine and moss growing all over it; the whole place feels suffocating more than ever like it is having its final breath.

Something in their empty chest aches at the sight. And it bleeds when they recognize the figure slumping into a wall on top of the tower, tattered and worn.

Where are his wings?

_ Dear Sothis, where are his wings? _

Byleth doesn’t say anything because they have nothing else to say. Byleth offers the exiled lord with their hand because that’s the only thing they currently have. And hope, sincerely with all their heart, that their own draped over both of them, for now, is enough.

  
  


_ The training ground was buzzing today, seeing how most of the students in the monastery were having their preening session. Chattering filled the air instead of sounds of iron clashing against each other, drowning out the sounds of fountains and wingbeat from guards on patrol. Ashe was collecting everyone's shedding feathers and sharpening them into arrows with Hilda sitting by, occasionally “stealing” one or two to add them into her ornaments collection. Crimson trail flirted over the sky and it was enough to tell that it’s Sylvain trying to show off his preened wings to all the students below, who were soon enough got rocks chucked at him for blocking the light. Somehow Felix of all people had convinced Brenetta to get out of her room and join in the grooming, even though that was more on Felix’s curious part to uncover how the female student had gotten away from him so fast from their previous encounter by inspecting her wings himself. The youngest students of all class were flocking together in an excited chattering, discussing how or what their wings would look like when they finally have their final molt; Ingrid sitting close by, fascinating with wings of different shapes and colors. Now there were two crimson trails and a purple one in the sky, with Ferdinand and Lorenz had joined Sylvain and his floundering. Somehow Flayn had joined the fray too and Byleth dearly hoped nothing would get out of hand. Seeing Byleth’s tight lips, Claude laughed and patted them on the back with a promise that small mischief surely wouldn’t hurt anyone. Dimitri had convinced Dedue to let loose for a bit at least, and both of them had joined Edelgard to sunbathe under the high blue sky. _

_ Taking the scene all in, Rhea took a small sip from her cup of tea, a content small adorned her face. _

_ All were well. _


End file.
